Seventeen Candles
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: A birthday, a cake, and some philosophical thoughts...oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **Guess what? I don't own Gilmore Girls, Lorelai's thoughts or really anything related to the show. I also don't own any of the references I may use.

**A/N: **Yet another challenge from Lorelai90's message board. One that I posted, of course. In this, we have to have a character reflect on a tough time in their life. And it has to be more than twenty-two hundred words, not counting author's notes, disclaimers and stuff.

This is all in Lorelai's POV, and it's set in season two.

Seventeen Candles

The year I turned seventeen, it was completely unlike what I had expected. Most seventeen year olds are being typical kids living on the edge of adulthood, trying to figure out where they stand, living a double standard. You can drive but you can't vote. You can stay out late, and have part-time jobs, but you can't legally drink. You spend your time figuring out what you have to be, what happens the moment you start to move away from being a carefree teenager to deciding what you want from life.

Seventeen year olds are some sophomores, juniors and a few seniors. They spend their time counting down the days till graduation, so they'll be free from institutionalized schooling. A lot of the time, they're finishing schoolwork, checking and rechecking, trying to get that perfect mark to get into the Ivy League. Or, at my high school, slacking off and hoping that Daddy will buy them a spot there. That was a little more typical.

Keg parties, shopping, hanging out and smoking, sneaking out of the house – that was what kids in my neighbourhood did not only when they were seventeen, but since they were about thirteen. Every one of the overbearing parents there would've been horrified if they had known the full extent of their darling children's indiscretions. Of course, I was the only one to be caught in the worst way. And maybe Christopher.

Nah, Chris got off easy compared to me. Blatant sexism, that was all, really. As the Susan Faludi that I am, I recognized that almost immediately. He's a guy; he didn't carry around the baby for nine months; he was more detached from the "situation" than I ever was. He could take off and go home; I had to toss and turn all night, trying to get comfortable. Later on, he just left and didn't come back. So I followed his lead, even if I have never been, never will be a follower.

You know, I was a moderately good kid. I was hell on wheels as a society kid, but I was alright by human standards. I snuck out a lot, but I wasn't really into smoking pot in the Laydens' hot tub at three o'clock in the morning. That was a little too…risqué, I think. Lindsay Lohan, I never was, even at her age. Especially at her age.

No, a typical seventeen year old I was not. I had a kid. A baby. A perfect little bundle of Rory. She was beautiful, but high-maintenance, as all babies are. I was tired all the time, and looked "completely inappropriate," in the charming words of Emily Gilmore. But Rory made me happy. I had something to do.

The downside? I was ridiculed at school. "She used to be _so _tiny," a girl in the bathroom said, when I had been hiding in the stall.

"I know. Do you think she's…?"

"She has to be."

"Well, that's…"

"Yeah."

"Unbelievable."

I leaned against the side of stall and cried some more. Lovely. I was a watering-pot at that time. Being a pregnant, hormonal teenager was possibly one of the worst things I ever have suffered. And the loving, parental support I got was really helpful. "Lorelai, don't slouch. It's unbecoming, and it doesn't make you look any better than you do _now_." "You can't drink coffee at this time. You are having a baby, for crying out loud!" _No, Mom, I had no idea. I thought my stomach was expanding because I'm still a virgin. And I'm drinking coffee anyway! _Another of the Things You Don't Say in the Gilmore House.

The year I turned seventeen was remarkably different than everything that I had gone through before. Rory was my responsibility now. The atmosphere in the Gilmore household was tense and softer at the same time. Maids came and went a lot faster, because Mom was more irritable than ever. We were fighting even more – how I should raise Rory, what I should do, wear, when to breathe…but she was so gentle and caring with Rory, that I couldn't believe she was one person. Multiple personalities made more sense.

I wasn't like the gum-chewing Rizzos at my school. They had no cares, no one counting on them to be fed every day, no cruel whispers following them even at their mother's parties, when people should've been mature enough to just let it go. I regretted having Rory sometimes, when I was pushing her stroller down the street, and a group of "friends" would walk by, make some fake polite talk and leave my daughter and I alone again. C'est la vie.

Rory tugs on my arm, snapping me back into this world. "Mom? Are you coming?"

I smile at her. "I don't know. What happens if I don't?"

"We eat all the cake, get you drunk and then we make sure that you don't get any coffee tomorrow." Rory smiles brightly back at me.

"When did you become so cold, birthday girl?" I ask. "Don't pull a _Mean Girls_ on me. I need my coffee. You know that. Depriving me would be wrong!"

"Yeah, well, deal with it. Now come on." Rory pulls on my arm. "To celebrate a birthday properly, one must have their best friend at the party. In this case, you. Now, move. You'll ruin the whole thing if you don't come."

"I can't ruin a party I'm not at," I argue, just to annoy her. I pointed to the edge of the porch which I had taken up camp on. Besides Rory, the next closest person was inside the house.

"You can ruin a party you threw and aren't there to enjoy," she accuses.

"Fine. I'll be inside in a minute. Now go. Your subjects are waiting."

"Take your good, sweet time, then." Rory made a face at me, and ran back into the house. I watched her leave, feeling even more pensive than ever. Of course, my thoughts were dancing around the fact that Rory was seventeen today, and I was (enviously) comparing her seventeenth birthday with my own.

Rule number one of parenting: Do not compare your life with your kid's, especially when a) they really don't care how much TV sucked in the eighties, and b) you had the Joylees Luck Club for parents.

My seventeenth birthday was radically different than my baby girl's. I had a crying baby, my parents (that should be enough of a description), and Chris – who showed up for the last few minutes I saw him before he left for New York, or Nevada, maybe? I don't remember any more. I was way too furious to remember that.

I do remember a whispered battle between Chris and I in the foyer; I'm trying to cradle Rory and keep her from crying anymore; I'm trying to keep it quiet so my parents won't come out and insert themselves in the middle of this argument. I also remember blowing out the candles on my cake and trying not to cry, because I had already started to pack. As much as I wanted to get out, even the thought of going made me feel guilty and that guilt made me a character on _The Waltons_, annoyingly conscientious. I always despised John-Boy.

Rory was right, though. I really should get back in there, and stop avoiding a party that I through for my daughter. I love throwing parties for her, and it would be a shame if I missed the zaniness in one of them.

I walk along the porch, doing that childhood trick of placing one foot in front of the other, trying to stay on one plank of the porch. I had mastered that when I was little; trying to stay entertained while my mother had spent her time talking to one of the DAR ladies. It was a talent, one that I wasn't necessarily proud of, but one, nonetheless.

Finally, I go inside my house, laughing and talking to everyone there. The place was full with the townies, going crazy and ready to celebrate Rory Gilmore's birthday yet again. I go into the kitchen, where Sookie is doctoring the cake, walking around and examining every square millimetre of it. "Hey," she says, "do you think that I have enough frosting on this side? I thought I spread it evenly, but now, I'm starting to think that I was wrong."

"Sookie," I say, trying to keep the mega-sarcasm leak into my tone, "haven't you already learned that I love frosting? There's never enough."

"Oh, right." She giggles, and I find myself joining in with her. "By my standards then -" she catches my raised eyebrows. "You can't judge my standards."

"That's right."

"Okay." Sookie takes another walk around the cake, staring down at every offending particle of frosting. "This had better be perfect. I want it to be perfect."

"Just because you want something to be perfect, doesn't mean it will." I pick up my now-warm martini and take a sip.

"Yeah, sweetie?" Sookie sits down, not bothering to hide the fact that she's ready for a good talk, if I need one. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." I add a shrug, to make it seem more believable. "I'm here, and then all of a sudden I'm on the porch, being Socrates."

"What were you philosophizing?" she asks, tilting her head, to get a better look into my eyes.

"Stuff. You know…my life, Rory's life, the beginning of her existence, all that mother stuff."

"Does this mean I'll get in on that secret of motherhood or something?"

"No, Sook. I don't even know the secret of motherhood myself."

"Well, I tried." She sits up, brightening. "I didn't even know that 'philosophizing' was a word!"

"Live and learn," I comment dryly.

"So true. Are we ready for the cake?"

I check the clock, having lost my watch somewhere. "Wait ten minutes?"

"Not a problem." Sookie gets up and laughs to herself. "' Philosophizing'. That's wonderful."

I shake my head, and slip out, while Sookie continues to chuckle to herself over nachos. She's had a few glasses of champagne, I know that much.

The living room is filled with people, friends of Rory's from school (mostly Stars Hollow High), Miss Patty, Babette, Kirk, Taylor – the usual crew that joined in on any type of town things, and our parties were town events. Taylor didn't really approve of a rousing party that had some of the crazy things that Rory and I love, but he was here anyway, sitting on couch, talking to Kirk and looking very uncomfortable. Kirk does that to a person.

I sneak up behind Rory and push a lock of her hair out of her face. "Hey," I say, quietly. "I came."

"Good. You listen to orders well, Mom."

"That's what I always wanted to hear." I beam at her and push some wrapping paper aside. "Having fun?"

"No, Mom, I hate birthdays and presents and even more junk food than I normally eat." She rolls her eyes and hugs me. "I'm starving. When are we having cake?"

"You just ate, like, fifteen pounds of chocolate and an entire King Henry the Eighth feast."

"Ha, ha."

"I'll go tell Sookie." I weave my way back into the kitchen, to find Sookie still staring at the cake. "Sook?" I ask, peering down at her.

"Cake time? Got it?" She sighs, taking one last look at the cake. I guess it'll be fine. She'll like it, right?"

"A coffeecake baked in the shape of a mug with _lots_ of frosting?" I grin at her. "She'll _love_ it. I promise. Now light the candles."

She rips open a package, and gently sticks them into the cake, trying to not ruin the work of art that is her cake. Sookie's cakes should be in a museum, they're that beautiful. They taste a hundred times better than they look, too.

I lead Sookie into the living room, making sure she won't trip or crash into someone on the way in. "Alright, everyone, you know the drill," I yell over the din. A rousing, if slightly off-key, version of Happy Birthday follows that, Miss Patty and Babette finishing the final note in lovely harmony, as always. Cheers erupt, and Rory looks rapturous. She glows tonight, and I watch her, feeling a pang. The year I turned seventeen, I had a six-month old daughter, a job at an inn as a maid, trying to get some money and was not speaking to my parents. The year that Rory turned seventeen, she was on line to go to the Ivy League, she was the princess of the town and she was headed down the path that I was set to but never did. She smiles at me, before blowing out the candles. She has to take two shots at it.

The year I blew out seventeen candles, I was scared and unsure of what I would do and where I would go. The year Rory blew out seventeen candles, she was ready to face the world, with a plan, a reachable goal and that support that I never got.

She looks back over at me, and I offer her another smile. "Happy birthday, babe."

* * *

Yay! 2214 words! 


End file.
